


if the morning comes

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, FP drinks a lot, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, a bit of angst, lots of internal conflict, rated E for masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There was a need inside of him that terrified him to death—something awful there that he couldn’t let himself think about, because it was too horrible, and it made him feel too strange.-Written for a prompter on the Kink Meme who asked for FP/Jughead with repressed guilty incest feelings on both sides.





	if the morning comes

**Author's Note:**

> **Please heed warnings and tags!**
> 
> Original prompt is [here](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=243020#cmt243020). Title is from [Monstrosity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWQth0Nt1cM) by KROY.

Jughead Jones always knew he wasn’t like other kids. Mostly because his parents weren’t like other people’s parents. Other people’s parents had steady jobs, and went grocery shopping every week, and took their families on vacation in the summer. But not Gladys and FP Jones.

Jughead wanted to say they tried their best, but that would have been a little too generous. Gladys was quiet and sad, and even when she was physically present she never quite seemed all there: she’d spend days at a time on the couch watching bad daytime TV or locked in her room with the blinds drawn, distant and lost in her own suffering.

FP was distant in the more traditional sense. He never really took notice of Jughead or Jellybean, frequently brushing them off in favour of his friends or a drink or petty theft. Sometimes he’d get guilty, and there’d be whole weeks at a time when he didn’t drink (that much), and he’d even make a point to try and help Jughead with his homework (though he usually just made it more confusing). Jughead could never be sure how long these on-and-off attempts at parenting would last, but he always preferred them to his mom’s unwavering indifference.

When Jughead was a kid, FP had done a couple stints in prison for things like possession and drunk driving and loitering in the parking lot of the video store selling weed to kids. Those times, when FP was away, were when Jughead felt most normal. Archie was always there for him, and Fred and Mary took pity on him, inviting him over for sleepovers when they knew Gladys was floundering.

And sure, Jughead missed FP when he was in jail, but not really much more than he usually did. At least if he was locked up there was a reason for him not being around.

It was after one of these stints that Jughead first noticed it: a feeling, or an awareness. A slight shift that he hadn’t felt before.

It was the summer before his thirteenth birthday. He’d spent the holidays at camp with Archie, even though his mom couldn’t afford it. He hadn’t even asked to go—it was Fred who had extended the offer, insisting that Archie needed a friend there with him because he got homesick, even though Jughead knew for a fact that wasn’t true. But he didn’t bother pointing that out to Fred.

So he and Archie had piled into Fred’s truck with their backpacks and sleeping bags and spent a glorious eight weeks at Camp Green Lake. They’d learned to tie knots and kayak, and every night they’d sung campfire songs and had hot chocolate before bed. At the end of each day Jughead climbed into the bunk above Archie’s and drifted off to sleep with a wide smile on his face, because this was _exactly_ what normal kids did.  

FP had been gone for almost a year when Jughead and Archie returned to Riverdale at the end of the summer, still flying high from their time at camp. Jughead was brown from the sun, sporting dark golden highlights from all the hours they had spent at the lake and still smelling of wood smoke and sunscreen. He was excited to tell Jellybean all about camp—maybe teach her some of the knots he had learned—but his smile faltered when he walked into the kitchen to find FP sitting at the table with a beer in his hand.

FP looked up and did a double take, eyes widening like a cartoon. “Shit, Jug…?”

“Dad. You’re back.”

“You bet—good behaviour,” FP said with a crooked smile. He stood up and surveyed Jughead awkwardly. They were almost the same height now.

“You’ve grown,” FP said. He was staring at Jughead like he was a very complicated puzzle, and Jughead felt his cheeks flush. “You look good.”

“Oh,” Jughead said. He didn’t know what else to say. He could feel FP’s eyes raking him up and down.

“Shit, you’re practically a man.” FP’s voice was thick, his words slightly slurred, and his breath smelled sour. “Well, good thing your old man’s back,” he said. FP pulled him into a tight hug, turning his head so that his unshaven cheek scraped against Jughead’s neck. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine. FP had been away for so long, but he still smelled the same, and Jughead’s suspicion and resentment melted away as he gave in to the embrace. He couldn’t remember FP hugging ever him quite like this before, and even though he wasn’t really used to being touched he found he didn’t mind it all that much.

After a few long seconds FP cleared his throat and pulled away with a strained smile. When he sat back down and resumed nursing his beer, he looked faintly ill.

*

There was something different, after that, in the way FP looked at him. Or, when he was sober, the way he avoided Jughead’s eye, like the very sight of him was painful. Maybe FP was disappointed in him, Jughead thought at first. Maybe he had done something wrong.

The confusing part was that FP wasn’t cold towards him all the time: after a couple drinks his expression softened, and he turned into someone else—someone a lot like a real dad, protective and affectionate. He touched Jughead’s arm or his back absently, tousled his hair, sat closer than he ever used to. Jughead soaked up the attention like a parched plant, even though a small part of him started to suspect that this wasn’t exactly normal either.

When he looked back on it later, Jughead sometimes wondered if FP had been working towards something—building up, grooming him. Wasn’t that what people did? But that was a stretch—most likely he was just drunk and careless. Most of the time he was so wound up in his own shitty life or the crime-of-the-week that Jughead was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of that kind of manipulation. Most likely he just never expected Jughead to catch on.

But over time, the looks lasted longer. The touches lingered. And whether FP meant it to or not, it had an effect.

Jughead grew up: filled out, got taller. And maybe he should have outgrown that need, too—shouldn’t have still craved that kind of affection in the way that he did. Something about it felt indecent. After all, FP only ever acted that way when they were alone. But he couldn't tell for sure, and he didn’t have a great frame of reference for these kinds of things.

Jughead might have had his first growth spurt early (he was always one of the tallest boys in his class), but in many ways he was a late bloomer. He didn’t really feel anything for anyone the way other kids his age seemed to. He wasn’t like Archie, who had entertained a never-ending parade of giggling girlfriends all throughout elementary and middle school. It felt like a secret world that Jughead wasn’t a part of—like everyone else was under the influence of some mysterious force that he was immune to.

On the one hand it was frustrating, and he felt a little excluded. But on the other, he was kind of glad. Felt a bit smug about it, even, because while Archie was a love-struck idiot most of the time, Jughead was occupying his time with more important things.

So his first wet dream came as a surprise. He didn’t remember what it was about, exactly, but he woke with a vague sense of unease sitting heavy in his stomach, his shirt damp with sweat and a cold, sticky spot in his boxers. He was fifteen, and already past the point at which these things tended to happen, according to everything he’d read online. In the bathroom, he cleaned himself up and stared down in sick fascination at his still half-hard dick.

To his horror, the dreams didn’t stop—they got worse, and he started to remember fragments: firm hands, a low voice, a familiar smell. Mostly just vague disembodied sensations and impressions as opposed to actual solid images, but they stuck in his head, and he couldn't shake the guilt that came with them. Maybe touching himself properly would help—would get it out of his system—but he could never bring himself to do it. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe he was afraid of where his mind might go, or of what exactly he might remember.

It was easy not to think about it most of the time, anyways; easy to ignore the dreams and the  _itch_  and fix his mind firmly on something else—school, a book, video games, Archie’s endless girl problems. Most of the time. But Gladys and FP had been fighting more and more, and while that probably should have served as some kind of distraction, it only made things worse.

Sometimes, when Gladys needed a break, she’d take Jellybean and go stay with their grandparents in Connecticut for a few days. (She never took Jughead with her—maybe he reminded her too much of FP, or maybe she just figured he could take care of himself.) While she was gone, FP gave up the pretence of trying to cut back; he got sentimental and fatherly, and went on and on about how he and Jughead should spend more “quality time” together. His hand would slide from Jughead’s shoulder to the back of his neck and he would lean in close and tell Jughead how proud he was.

And even though that was what Jughead craved, he also dreaded it more than anything. There was a need inside of him that terrified him to death, and it was more complicated than just wanting comfort or validation. Because every time FP touched him, Jughead started to remember things. His dreams—the ones that left him feverish and shaking and sick with shame. There was some awful connection there that he couldn’t let himself think about, because it was too horrible, and it made him feel too strange.

It was probably nothing, he told himself. Misplaced loneliness, maybe, or a byproduct of his shitty upbringing. Anyways, everyone had bad dreams from time to time. 

Still, when FP drank, Jughead avoided him more resolutely than ever. Whenever his parents fought, he stayed with Archie. They’d play video games and eat junk food and he wouldn’t even think about FP or his dreams or the mess waiting for him at home.

But Archie wasn’t always reliable, and as things got worse and Gladys’s trips got longer and longer, Archie cancelled on him more and more often. Offered lame excuses about needing rest because of football, or having to study for a biology test they both knew he’d just barely scrape a pass on anyways.

It was one of these times, when Gladys and Jellybean had gone and Archie had bailed on him yet again, that forced Jughead to stare all the fucked up things inside of him square in the face.

*

“Grab me another one,” FP called from his favourite spot in front of the TV, and Jughead did, because there wasn’t any point in refusing, or giving him a lecture. “’Atta boy,” FP grunted.

_This is why mom can’t stand you anymore,_ he thought as he handed FP the bottle. He turned to go sit down on the other side of the room, but FP made a disapproving noise low in the back of his throat.

“C’mere,” he said, and patted the spot on the couch next to him firmly. Jughead swallowed a sudden lump of panic and looked away.

“Jug. Come here,” FP said again.

So he did. Because as much as he was afraid, he also wanted it more than anything—the closeness. He wanted his dad to look at him like that again; like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like he never did when he was sober.

FP shifted slightly when Jughead sat down, angling himself so that their knees were touching. Jughead tried to focus on whatever was playing on TV—some show about crab fishermen in the Arctic. Apparently it was a pretty lucrative gig, but Jughead wasn’t listening very closely when they told the camera crew how much they made.

“Maybe I should think about a career change, eh?” FP chuckled. He shifted again, stretching out his arm so that it draped around the back of the couch behind Jughead. He felt himself relax a little as FP’s fingers started tracing slow, soothing circles on his shoulder.

The show ended, but Jughead barely registered it. FP was so warm, and underneath the smell of stale beer was the scent of his skin, hot and masculine and overwhelming this close up. It made Jughead feel feverish and jittery, like he’d had one too many cups of coffee.

When FP spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, and Jughead felt it resonate deep in his own chest. “Listen,” he said. “Your mom and me… we haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately.”

“I know,” Jughead said, his own voice barely a whisper. His throat felt tight. FP squeezed his shoulder gently, drawing him in closer, and Jughead found himself curling in against FP’s side. His chest rose and fell steadily in a soothing rhythm.

“Doesn’t change anything, though,” FP said gruffly. His voice sounded strained. “Doesn’t change how much... how much I love you.”

Jughead blinked back sudden tears.  _Do you really mean that?_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t, just stared ahead unseeingly at the TV.

“Hey,” FP said. “Hey, look at me.” And Jughead did. He turned his head and looked up at his dad, and all he could think about was how close they were. And it felt wrong, but he wanted to be even closer. FP’s eyes were glassy, and he was looking down at Jughead with a pained longing that made his heart stutter. “You know... you know I love you, right?”

Jughead swallowed and looked away.

“Jug,” FP said tightly. There was guilt there—Jughead could hear it. FP tensed and seemed to hesitate; a moment passed, and then he let out an unsteady breath and slid his other arm around Jughead’s chest, holding him tightly.

Jughead’s eyes fluttered closed. He was dizzy and a little nauseous—his heart was beating wildly and his body thrummed all over with adrenaline. He wanted more, and he knew he wasn’t imagining that FP did too: Jughead could feel him shaking and his breath was ragged in Jughead’s ear.

Jughead shifted, and for the first time he was aware of how hard he was. He should probably be horrified by that, he knew, but the realization only filled him with a dull kind of acceptance. He wondered if FP could see the bulge in his jeans.

He brought a hand to where FP’s palm rested over his heart, lacing their fingers together. FP hissed at the touch like he’d been burned, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he squeezed Jughead’s hand and pressed his mouth to the silky hair at Jughead’s temple, just below the hem of his beanie. Jughead’s breath caught in his throat, and—he couldn't help it—he rolled his hips, just barely managing to bite back a cry as the fabric of his jeans chafed against his erection.

“Shit, Juggie,” FP breathed into his ear. He was gripping Jughead’s hand so tightly it was almost painful.

“Dad?” Jughead managed shakily. FP swore under his breath.

“Jug, I—” He stiffened and made to pull away, but Jughead didn’t want this to be over—not yet. He twisted around so they were face to face, his hands moving to FP’s collar, gripping him hard, trying to hold him in place.

“’S’okay,” Jughead said desperately. “Dad, it’s okay—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” FP choked out.  “Jug—”

FP tried to push him away, but Jughead clung to him tightly until he stilled. For a second, Jughead thought he would stay; his hands shook as he moved to cradle Jughead’s jaw, pulling him in, pressing their foreheads together, and Jughead wanted so badly to close the space between them. But he was afraid of what it would mean. All of a sudden FP seemed to come to his senses—he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in silent horror.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry, Juggie,” and then he was gone.

Dimly, Jughead heard the back door slam. Heard his FP’s shitty pickup truck sputter to life.

The warmth of FP’s body was gone, but Jughead still felt hot all over. He got up and paced the living room, breathing heavily, trying not to think of his dad’s mouth against his skin and all the other fucked up things that were racing through his head.

_“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell_ ,” Jughead muttered over and over. He sat back down and tried to calm himself. He should call someone, maybe—FP shouldn’t be driving right now. But his mind going a mile a minute, and the couch was still warm where they had been sitting together only moments earlier. He pressed his face into the fabric, breathing in whatever trace amounts of his dad’s smell still lingered there. He groaned, and in spite of himself his hands moved to his waistband.

_What was wrong with him?_

Jughead gasped aloud when he slid a hand into his jeans—the touch was painfully intense after denying himself any kind of release for so long. His dick was swollen and aching, and Jughead barely had to touch himself before he was coming hard, whimpering and thrusting wildly into his fist.

*

FP didn’t come home that night, or the next one. On Monday morning Fred showed up at the trailer to take Jughead to school.

“Your dad called,” he said as Jughead slid into the back seat beside Archie. “Said he had some emergency business up North.” The look on Fred’s face said he didn’t buy it, but Jughead nodded anyways as if it were true.

“Sorry about this weekend,” Archie muttered sheepishly under his breath.

“It’s fine,” Jughead said.

But it wasn’t fine—none of it was. Jughead tried not to think about that night—tried to tell himself it was some kind fluke, some kind of temporary insanity that had made him act that way. But that was a lie. Whatever it was he had felt had been there for years, building, and now that the floodgates had opened it was impossible to close them again.

He avoided jerking off as much as he could, but sometimes the pressure got to be too much to handle and he didn’t have a choice. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help imagining it was his dad’s hand on his cock instead of his own—his dad whispering in his ear, telling him how proud he was and how much he loved him.   

And maybe FP thought about that, too, because he avoided Jughead more thoroughly than ever. He would leave for days at a time and come home incoherent and reeking of liquor, and even then he always kept Jughead at arms length and avoided looking him in the eye.

From there, things between Gladys and FP deteriorated quickly, and it was hard for Jughead not to blame himself when she took Jellybean in the middle of the night and left for good. That was the only time Jughead had ever seen FP cry properly—sobbing, tears rolling down his face. Jughead tried to reach out—tried to comfort him, or take some kind of comfort, maybe, because he was hurting too—but FP only turned away and buried his face in his hands.

“’M so fucked up,” he mumbled. “’M sorry, Juggie.”

And Jughead didn’t know what else to do, so he left. The Twilight Drive-In was understaffed, and since no one ever went in the projector room but him, Jughead made himself at home.

Sometimes he saw his dad around, and he seemed to be doing better. After a while, the pained expression that always flashed across his face at the sight of Jughead even started to fade. Occasionally he came by the drive-in, and even though they never said much to each other Jughead felt better knowing he was close. So maybe this arrangement was better for both of them.

Jughead didn’t like to be alone with his thoughts too much, so he spent a lot of time at Pop’s. He started writing about Riverdale, and the people who lived there, and in a way it was therapeutic. And maybe things weren't perfect, but life went on.

After a while, he could almost trick himself into believing everything that had happened was just another dream. The only problem was that he couldn't decide if it was a good one or a bad one. 

 


End file.
